Queen (Bloodline Vampires 3)

“Yes,” I bite out. I couldn’t have lied if I wanted to. I hate this feeling. Like I’m a puppet to his whim. I’m screaming inside my head, but no sound leaves my lips except what he wills. It doesn’t matter that he’s done this to me before; it’s not something I’ll ever get used to.

If our plan succeeds, I’ll never have to experience it again.

“The fires. Your men are responsible?”

I clench my jaw and he drops the charming act, his brows drawing down. “Answer me.”

“Yes.”

“What is their plan?”

I was still a teenager when I learned the trick to dealing with his ability to use glamour to wrest answers from unwilling mouths. With most people, he seems to make them want to tell the truth so that they surrender their knowledge willingly, to please him. With me, he’s always used brute force. It hurts, but there is some room to maneuver, depending on how vague his questions. “Start fires.”

He stares down at me as if he wants to rip my head from my shoulders. “What is their plan? Be specific.”

I fight against the push of his power. To do anything else is out of the question. I don’t know what Lizzie is waiting for, but I will buy as much time as I need to. I taste blood and grin up at my father. “To start fires,” I repeat.

He clenches his hands into fists and releases them slowly. “And after they start fires?” He bites out each word like he wants to rip into me with more than power.

“Fight.”

“I swear to the gods, I will kill you now, child or no, if you don’t stop being so damned difficult.” When I don’t answer, he throws up his hands. “Well?”

“That wasn’t a proper question.” A little bit of blood leaks from the corner of my mouth. I’m not sure where it comes from when he does this. There’s no cut or obvious injury, but I always bleed when I fight him.

I sit back on my heels and look up. A wave of dizziness passes over me, but when it clears, I nearly sob with relief. A little red dot appears on his throat. “Father?”

“What?”

“I hope this hurts.” My hand goes to my boot, to the long knife in the sheath there, both courtesy of Grace’s bag.

“I changed my mind. You die—”

His throat explodes.

18

I surge to my feet before the blood mist has a chance to fall. My father is old. He’ll heal far too quickly to hesitate now. It’s why we couldn’t risk a shot to the head. If he’s still able to speak, he’ll put a stop to any attack before I have a chance to finish it.

His power still lingers in the air, but it no longer feels like it’s chaining me in place. I lunge at him, taking him to the ground even as he tries to stop the bleeding. His mouth moves, but no words come out. How many seconds do I have? Thirty? Twenty? Ten?

Fear gives me strength as I hack at him with the knife. One strike hits his hands, another, and then they’re finally out of the way. It takes one glance at his throat to drive how little time I have. It’s knitting together before my very eyes. “No!” I bring the blade over my head and thrust it down, intending to impale his neck. It will be impossible for him to heal if there’s a knife in the way.

I don’t make it.

He catches the blade in the palms of his hands, the blade sliding clean through and catching on the hilt. Shock freezes me for a single heartbeat, and then it’s too late. He wrenches the knife away. The momentum sends it spinning away from us. I follow the trajectory as horror rises with the realization that it lands too far away. If I go for it, he’ll be healed by the time I get back to him.

Rylan’s voice rises from the back of my mind, memory, or something else.

Never defenseless. Never weaponless.

Do not panic.

I scream as my father strikes up at me. Instinct has me lifting my hands to keep him from hitting my face. In my fear, I almost don’t notice the tingling that spread from my fingers down through my hands. I shove back at my father and blink down as blood sprays where I make contact.

My hands are…transformed. It’s not like before. There are no dainty claws that are sharp but ultimately less than useful in a fight. No, my claws look like Rylan’s when he’s a wolf. They’re huge and wickedly curved and achingly sharp.

My father’s eyes go wide. No, he mouths.

“Yes.”

This time, when I attack, it doesn’t matter that he’s trying to fight me with his bare hands. A blow from me, and there are no more hands to speak of. Another swipe and his throat is gone entirely. I keep going, fear driving me, until his neck is entirely gone and his head rolls away from his body.